Recovery
by Alexannah
Summary: Wilfred Mott saves the Doctor's life. In more than one sense, and with a little help. But the process is long and painful, and forces Wilf to make an impossible, unreasonable choice. Hurt/Comfort, Angst
1. Taking Arms

**Rating/Warnings:** M for violence/injury description, suicidal thoughts/actions

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doctor Who.

**Canon/Spoilers: **AU to end of EOT, ignores future canon. I'm not familiar with all classic Who so doesn't fully conform to that either. I wrote a kind of prelude to this, called _Blood_. The lyrics are from "Where will you go", which is a very beautiful song and felt very fitting for this fic (it was very difficult selecting the lyrics for the quote). I've been listening to the album a lot recently (best expensive import I ever ordered) and think I have that to thank for this being posted now.

* * *

**Recovery**

By Alexannah

_Where will you go  
With no one left to save you from yourself …  
No one seems to hear your hidden cries  
You're left to face yourself alone  
__**- Evanescence**_

**Chapter One: Taking Arms**

Outside, the Doctor returned to the TARDIS. Wilfred let the curtain fall back to the side, tucked the revolver into his belt and turned back to the bed. He was about to shut the suitcase when he noticed something else. Something very small, glowing in a corner.

His heart jumped into his mouth and with a shaking hand he picked it up. A small engraved gold disc, hanging off a chain.

"_It's a key. You'll know when to use it."_

The only words she had said on the matter. Wilf had almost forgotten with the years, but now the memory came flooding back as the object shone bright gold through the dust. He wiped it clean; at his touch, the glow almost completely faded.

With no hesitation, Wilf hung the chain around his neck and tucked the key out of sight.

* * *

They had let him keep the sonic screwdriver.

It wasn't as if it was going to help him, the Doctor thought. The cell door was triple deadlocked. (He had tried.) He had gone through his dimensionally transcendental pockets seven times now. On any other planet, he might have stood a chance of escape. But on Gallifrey?

Even if he escaped the jail—a virtually unheard of feat in itself—he stood no chance of escaping the planet itself in time.

Prisons on Gallifrey were designed to block out all sense of time. He could have been in the cell minutes, or centuries. For a Time Lord, separation from all but the external senses was only just short of torture. Logically, the Doctor knew it couldn't have been more than a day, or he—along with the rest of his species—would be dead. With no chance of escape, the best he had to hope for was the Moment to be activated by his past self before he was called before the Council. Death by that had to be better than Triple Execution.

The Doctor shuddered. He had never witnessed one himself, they were dealt out quite rarely—saved for only the worst of traitors. But he knew how it worked, and he knew that, as the killer of his own kind, there was no way he would get off with anything less.

He didn't want the last thoughts going through his mind to be fear. The Doctor tried to distract himself, tried to force his thoughts on happier memories. It wasn't easy. His thoughts drifted back to his last moments outside the Time Lock, and he remembered Wilfred. He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut as the realisation hit him.

The radiation. Brilliant, wonderful Wilf, was no doubt dead by now. A lump arose in his throat. Another family that he almost called his own, another family he had destroyed. First Donna, then her grandfather ...

"_The final act of your life is murder?_" Rassilon had sneered earlier. How right he had been. Leading friends to certain death was as bad as taking their lives himself. Maybe he deserved ...

_No._ The Doctor shook himself mentally. He was _not_ going to go down that road of thinking. If the Council were going to take his life, he was not going to let his mind go too.

* * *

"Hello?"

Wilfred's voice rang out through the empty room pointlessly. He swallowed and slid down the glass wall to sit on the floor. The machine was making all sorts of noises, but right at that moment he couldn't bring himself to care. The Doctor had gone.

Wilf didn't pride himself on his understanding of aliens, even after all he'd encountered. But he would guess that the Doctor disappearing along with the other Time Lords wasn't a good thing.

Was he dead? Wilf tried to quell the thought. He couldn't be. Even after he'd told him the prophecy, he couldn't believe it. He _wouldn't_ believe it.

The machine noises were getting louder. Wilf shook himself, and tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge.

He took out his mobile, intent on phoning Sylvia. If he was about to die, he didn't want the last words he said in his daughter's hearing to be 'You're not leaving me with her'. Before he could dial, however, someone appeared in the room before him. Wilf almost dropped his phone.

It was _her_.

"It's you!" He jumped to his feet.

"Wilfred Mott." In spite of the sadness in the Time Lady's eyes, the tiniest of a smile curled the corner of her mouth. "What have you gone and done?"

"The door won't open," Wilf said. "You couldn't—"

"I'll let you out." She opened the other booth, closed the door and slammed the button down. Less than a millisecond later, she had vanished again before his eyes. The booth glowed red, and Wilf hurried out of his. After a minute, she reappeared, this time beside him.

"Thanks," Wilf said.

"You're welcome, Wilfred. And now you must help me."

"What can I do?" Wilf asked. "Where's the Doctor? Is he—"

"He's not dead," she replied. "Not yet. But he was pulled inside the Time Lock. If we don't hurry, he will be dead."

Wilf's breath caught in his throat. "But—what can I do?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, I found my own way in and out of the Time Lock," she said. "I can take you in with me. First, give me your key."

Obediently, Wilf pulled it from under his clothes. The key was still faintly glowing. "How'd you know I had this? What's it do?"

"For the moment," the woman said, taking it from him, "it's our anchor to the here and now. Our way back out." She placed it on the floor and held out a hand to him. Wilf looked at it, and then back up at her.

"I don't even know your name," he said. "Who are you?"

There was a pause while she looked him in the eye, and for a moment, again, he felt a flicker of something in his chest, like he was missing something important. "I'm Pennine," she finally replied.

* * *

The cell door slid open, and the Doctor swallowed hard, trying not to shake. So this was how it was going to end, was it? The man who had sacrificed everything—_everything_—to save the universe, time and time again, was going to be killed like a criminal. A traitor.

A slow, agonising death. No escaping. No regenerating. No-one left to save him.

Dead. The end.

**TBC ...**


	2. Rescue Mission

**Chapter Two: Rescue Mission**

Wilfred picked up the fallen revolver and tucked it into his belt. "All right. Tell me what to do. I'll help the Doctor any way I can."

"Take my hands," Pennine said.

He did.

There was a rushing sound in his ears, the surroundings dissolved, and he felt as if he was being sucked down a plughole. It only lasted a few seconds; afterwards, Wilf found himself in a cold metal hallway. He swayed slightly from the sudden change. Pennine grabbed his arm and pulled him round a corner as footsteps approached.

Two Time Lords—at least, Wilf guessed they were by the robes and headdresses—passed in silence without glancing back, and he began to breathe again.

"Where are we?" he whispered.

"Gallifrey," she whispered back.

Despite the situation, Wilf couldn't help a bit of giddiness. His first steps on another planet!

"This is the corridor that links the jail cells with the Council Hall," Pennine explained. "The cells are that way, and the Council meets that way."

"Which way are we—"

"Shh!" Pennine gripped his arm. More footsteps were coming, much more of them, and this time Wilf could hear something else—a jangling of chains.

As the procession passed, he heard Pennine draw in a sharp breath, and had to stifle a reaction himself. Two more Time Lords were followed by the Doctor. He was chained by the wrists and ankles, the chains held by the Time Lords following. But it was his face that shocked Wilf the most. It reminded him of the moment he had sat opposite him in the cafe, but while that Doctor still had a streak of fight in him, this one seemed more ... resigned. Hopeless. And so fearful. The chains jangled as he shook, his stride occasionally tempered by a stumble.

He looked round at Pennine, and got another shock at the tears running unchecked down her cheeks as she stared at the Doctor. Her eyes had darkened, a mixture of pain, terror and determination. Wilf felt a lump in his throat as something clicked. He knew _exactly_ who she was.

One parent to another, he found her hand and squeezed it. She shot him a look of thanks.

"They're taking him to his trial," Pennine whispered once they were out of earshot.

"Trial?" Wilf didn't like the sound of that.

"Well, it's not a trial. The Council will have already decided his fate. It's just where they officially announce it. And then carry it out."

"I'm guessing it's not a prison sentence then."

"No," Pennine said. "The most treacherous of Time Lords reap the worst punishment. He'll be executed."

She took a deep breath and her tone became more businesslike. "Wilf, listen, this is what you need to do." He nodded. "Before they—before it starts, they'll remove his coat and jacket. You need to get his screwdriver out the pocket. Then once it's all clear, use it to get the chains off him. Leave the rest to me."

Wilf swallowed, hoping that Pennine had had time to plan this well, or at least that she had the same capacity for successfully improvising as her son did.

"We're not going to have long once they've started," she said.

"How long?"

She bit her lip, thinking. "About eight minutes."

"Oh blimey. I hope you know what you're doing."

She closed her eyes. "So do I." She took a deep breath. "Right. Go that way, turn left, keep going and _stay out of sight_. You'll be able to get to his clothes without anyone seeing you, but then you'll—you'll have to watch for the cue." Wilf nodded, hoping this would make more sense while it was actually happening. "And, Wilfred ... I'm sorry you have to watch this. I truly am."

Pennine gave Wilfred's hand one last squeeze, let go and hurried off in the opposite direction. Wilf turned and broke into a run, following her directions.

He slowed down, trying not to make any noise, as he approached a door. It was standing open, and he peeked round, almost letting out a gasp as he found himself looking straight at a Time Lord's back. Not daring to breathe, he watched as, just past the guard, the Doctor's coat and suit jacket were forcibly removed and cast aside, before the Doctor was marched out of the room through a door the other end. Wilfred made sure the room was completely empty before sneaking in himself.

The door was wide open, and brightly lit beyond. He could see only a sliver of the huge room. It was filled round the walls with Time Lords, and the floor empty except for the procession. The Doctor's appearance was greeted with a roar from the crowd—Wilf wasn't convinced that was a good sign.

He began rifling through the coat pockets, his heart plummeting when he realised just how many the Doctor had, and how big they were on the inside, stuffed full of things.

Ah! Wilf's fingers brushed something long, cold and metal. He had it!

Now he could only wait. And watch for the cue.

The Doctor was standing before a slab of stone. A long box lay beside it. Wilf wasn't close enough to see, but he could paint in the trembling hands and the set jaw that he had seen earlier.

The Time Lord that had led the charge on Earth—Rassilon, was it that the Doctor had called him—stood high above on a podium, flanked by other Time Lords. The whole room was hushed as he stepped forward.

"Doctor." He spoke in a cold tone. "You have been found guilty of the charge of high treason and genocide. Anything you have to say in your defence?"

The Doctor didn't reply, but stared back into Rassilon's face determinedly. A long silence.

Rassilon finally spoke, breaking the silence in the hall. "So, nothing to say. Doctor, you are hereby sentenced to death by Triple Execution."

There was no mistaking it now; even as far away as Wilf was, he could see the Doctor shaking.

"Any last words, Doctor?"

He spoke finally; although quiet, the words rang in the silent hall. "Someone had to stop you."

"Begin," Rassilon ordered.

**TBC …**


	3. Triple Execution

**Chapter Three: Triple Execution**

It was nearing the hour. Pennine still couldn't reach her son telepathically, even though he was out of the jail now. His mind was closed up. Still, she put up her own mental barriers as she hurried towards her goal, fearful of his crumbling when the hour came. She couldn't afford to feel what he felt.

The force field surrounding the jail that blocked out the senses was generated from a large device next to the Warden's office. Pennine, having known for a long time that she would need it one day, had visited often over the years. Although she had tried to keep her visits covert, Epsilon had once accused her of having an affair with the Warden. Still, the visits had served their purpose. She knew every wire and switch in the machine, knew exactly how to disable it—and how to turn its purpose to something quite different. Something that, if she managed to rig it in time, would provide the distraction Wilfred needed to save the Doctor.

* * *

"Begin."

The Doctor was forced to his knees onto the stone slab and chained down. One of the guards was injecting something into his neck.

Wilfred watched, never having felt so helpless. "_Once it's all clear ... watch for the cue_," Pennine had said. Well, he didn't have a clue what that meant. It certainly wasn't all clear right now, and he hadn't seen anything that might have been taken to be a cue.

He stayed where he was, trying not to wonder what they were doing to him. Wilf could only half-see what was going on, which he wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. Another injection. Wilfred's knuckles were white on the screwdriver.

And then he jumped out of his skin, from both shock and horror, at three more or less simultaneous sounds.

A crack, like from a whip. A sort of sizzling. And a scream that made his stomach turn inside-out.

The Doctor continued screaming long after the other sounds had stopped. Wilf still couldn't make out exactly what was going on, but he could see that the Doctor's shirt was suddenly drenched in blood. If he had eaten anything in the last few hours, Wilf would definitely have lost it then.

He wanted to run in, to stop them, but he knew he couldn't. He had to wait, he couldn't abandon the plan, he'd just make things worse.

For a long while, nothing else happened. Wilf had edged slightly more to the left, and could make out about half of who he guessed was the executioner. There was dead silence in the crowded room, everyone's eye on the dying Time Lord. Then, two minutes after the first crack, the executioner raised a whip and brought it cracking back down.

Wilf had turned his head away at the last moment, but couldn't shut out the screams as the whip made contact. Tears ran down Wilf's face as his heart broke; he hurried Pennine on in his mind, hoping against hope that he would be able to stop this. When could it stop, when could it stop?

He made himself look during the two-minute intervals, only turning his head when the lashes were dealt. At the fourth, he began to wonder if Pennine's plan had failed, if she had got caught, if ...

At the fifth, the Doctor stopped screaming, though he still looked conscious.

As the sixth made contact, the energy frazzling its victim as before, something finally happened. Every Time Lord in the room flickered, as if they were on a dodgy tape. Wilf held his breath.

A second later, they all disappeared, right where they were. He didn't need telling twice.

"DOCTOR!" Wilf ran as fast as he could towards the middle of the room.

The Doctor was heaving with coughs, spitting blood out of his mouth that joined the pool on the floor. His eyes were open but unfocused as Wilf reached him.

"Doctor, it's me, it's Wilfred. It's okay," Wilf said. He fumbled for the chains holding the Doctor down and held the sonic screwdriver to the locks. His hands were shaking but he managed to undo the shackles, trying to soothe the Doctor as he did so.

As he pulled the second arm free, the Doctor's eyes started focusing a bit more, now on him. "Wilf?"

"Yeah, it's okay, I got you." Wilf paused, wondering how he was supposed to get the Doctor to his feet in this condition. Or was he going to have to drag him? And where to? Where was Pennine?

The Doctor mumbled something about hallucinations, but Wilf let out a sigh of relief as Pennine reappeared, hurtling out of the antechamber towards them.

When she was still several feet away, the Time Lords reappeared, and there was a shout of anger. The executioner raised his whip towards Wilf, and he automatically went for his revolver, but Pennine reached them. She grabbed the Doctor's arm with one hand and Wilf's shoulder with the other, and before the whip could crack, they were gone.

* * *

The Doctor felt, as if from a distance, hands grab him, and the tug into space. The floor of the High Court was replaced with another floor, still cold and hard, this time covered in shattered glass. His face pressed up against it for the second time that day, he kept his eyes closed, concentrating only on keeping his hearts beating and trying to block out all else.

He had lost count of the lashes, the pain was too great, it had all blurred together. Or maybe it was partly the lingering effect of the prison. But it didn't matter, his brain was barely registering anything except the pain. His back was cut open, several bones were shattered, his head felt ready to implode, his hearts were burning, and every touch, every movement made it worse.

Every jolt as he was half-carried, half-dragged, added to the agony. He tried desperately to black out, but knew it was no use. He couldn't; the injection the Time Lords had given him saw to that. Instead he was becoming slightly more conscious of his surroundings.

"... said he'd put it a second out or something ..."

"... can fix that if you show me where."

He knew that voice.

They stopped, him still being supported by two pairs of arms. He heard the bleeping of his own screwdriver and a whirr from the TARDIS. Then they were moving again. He could hear the hum of his ship trying to soothe him, but not having much success.

Finally, he was laid on something soft; a bed. He felt what was left of the back of his shirt being peeled off his skin, and winced; heard noises of revulsion at the sight of his mangled flesh. The female voice spoke again, something about a box in a cupboard and a key. Then a hand took hold of the Doctor's, and another softly caressed his cheek. "Sweetheart?"

He opened his eyes, wincing slightly at the light. It took a moment to register her face.

"M-Mum?"

Seemingly relieved that he was lucid enough to recognise her, she smiled, albeit sadly. "I have to go." The Doctor involuntarily clasped her hand tightly, and a tear fell from her eye. "I'm sorry, I can only stay a few minutes at a time, I have to go back."

"No—please," the Doctor managed to choke out.

"I'm coming back, Sweetheart," she said firmly, planting a kiss on his head. "I promise."

And with that, she faded to nothing.

**TBC …**


	4. Alone in the TARDIS

**Chapter Four: Alone in the TARDIS**

Wilfred, having found the box Pennine had pointed out, turned round triumphantly to find she had disappeared. Oh blimey, he was going to have to do all this himself.

_Come on, get a grip_, he told himself. _The Doctor's relying on you_.

The box had a strange kind of locking mechanism, but she had already told him what to do. Wilf placed the key in the ready-made hole, and the lid popped open. In the top of the box was a very old piece of folded paper. Opening it up, he saw it was a list of instructions.

* * *

Sylvia slipped into the kitchen, away from Donna and Shaun, and dialled her father's mobile number.

It rang and rang, and finally she got the voicemail.

"Dad, it's me," she said. "Please answer your phone, I need to know, are you okay?" She sighed. "Please call back. Or better still, come home. And make sure that ..." she glanced around her. "_... man_ stays well away."

She hung up, and tried to shake off a nagging feeling. Wilf would be fine, of course he would. He was resilient.

The image of Wilf getting into that blue box sent a shiver down Sylvia's back. Of course he'd come back. Why wouldn't he? She couldn't explain it, but something definitely didn't feel right.

* * *

Wilf gave a little jerk and he realised he'd dozed off. His eyes snapped towards the bed, where the Doctor lay very pale and still. After checking his pulse for the hundredth time, Wilf sat back and watched him.

He didn't know how much time had passed since they'd arrived in the med bay. The instructions Pennine had pointed him to had guided him through treatment to the Doctor's wounds, giving him a blood transfusion, administrating various liquid medications through a needle and how to tend to him once he'd managed to fall into his healing coma.

Wilf had followed them to the letter through the process, and only once the Doctor was stable and soundly unconscious did he collapse into a chair next to the bed and start to shake. He felt a little better now he'd fetched a couple of blankets and some tea.

It could take days for the Doctor to wake up, but he couldn't leave him. Sylvia had tried to call Wilf several times, but he hadn't picked up, unsure what he could say to her. He'd call her back once he'd figured it out. At least he knew Donna was all right; Sylvia had said so in the first message she'd left on his phone. The first of many.

Maybe he was still in shock, Wilf thought as he pulled the blanket a bit tighter round him. The horror of the whole experience hadn't quite sunk in yet.

He knew the Doctor well enough to know that, if said Time Lord knew Wilfred was keeping vigil there instead of returning home to his family, he'd have something to say about it. But Wilf didn't care. The Doctor deserved his help, nay needed it; right at that moment it was all he had. And Wilfred Mott was nothing if not stubbornly loyal.

His eyes were beginning to close again, and he decided he might be better off moving around. As long as the Doctor was in his coma he didn't want to fall asleep. He'd already found the kitchen—about the only useful room he'd managed to locate, and then only by accident—and wondered if he ought to get something to eat. Maybe he should also find something to read. There had to be some books somewhere in this place. A strong coffee wouldn't go amiss either.

There had been a ball of string inside the box Pennine had pointed him to, the only item that had no medical use. Wilf had tied the end round the Doctor's bed post and unravelled it as he explored the TARDIS the first time so as to not lose his way back.

As he did this the second time, it occurred to him that maybe Pennine had left it for this reason. He wondered how she could have known. And then he wondered what he hadn't figured out yet. There was something about her that was bugging him, but he couldn't put a finger on it.

* * *

Boxing Day was quiet in the Noble household. Plans of a family get-together at Shaun's parents' place had been somewhat dented by Wilf's twenty-four hour absence. Donna hadn't wanted to do anything without her grandad, but Sylvia managed to persuade her to go and spend time with her fiancé and future in-laws.

"I promise you I'll call if I hear from him," she said, trying not to make it seem like she was pushing her daughter out the door. "I'm sure he's gone to one of his astronomy meets and forgot to phone, you know what he's like."

"What, all night? Last night of all nights?" Donna didn't sound convinced.

"Well you know how it is, if there's something special in the sky they don't care what night it is. Now go on, I promise I will bring him over when he turns up."

The moment Donna had walked out the door Sylvia picked up the phone and dialled again.

"Dad. It's me. Again. You have to come home, right now. Donna's worried about you, it's all I could do from stopping her calling the police. If you're not back by the time she gets home, I won't be able to stop her, and then what am I supposed to say? That you went off with the Doctor? If you're even bothering to listen to these messages, call me back right now, or better still just come home."

Mere minutes after she'd left the furious message, the phone rang.

"Hullo," was her father's somewhat timid-sounding voice. "It's me."

"Dad! Where the _hell_ have you been?"

He muttered something which sounded like 'you just answered your own question', before answering properly. "I'm with the Doctor."

"You don't say. Come home. Now."

"I—I can't."

There was a long silence. Sylvia could practically hear Wilfred's fear of her. "What do you mean, _can't?_"

"Er, well, it's a bit … complicated …"

"Don't give me that, Dad, either you get you backside back here now or I'm reporting you as a missing person."

"Hey, you can't do that!"

"Come home then."

"I can't!"

"_Why not?_"

"I'm needed here."

It took Sylvia a moment to process what he'd said. "What?"

"I'm needed here. The Doctor needs me. I can't leave him."

"Why's he need you?" Sylvia couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"He's hurt. Injured. He needs someone with him, he can't look after himself right now. And he doesn't have anyone else."

The words took her argument away, but not her anger. She took a few deep breaths.

"So what am I supposed to tell Donna?"

* * *

Wilf took another route around the TARDIS. He located the wardrobe, changed into some clothes that weren't blood-stained and put his own clothes in the Doctor's washing-machine.

He wondered how his granddaughter would take the story, that he was looking after a sick friend. It was close enough to the truth. But he still thought it would be best _not_ to collect his things once the Doctor was awake, in case he ran into her; he wasn't certain he could lie convincingly to her face.

Sylvia had always been better at deception than him. Something that, when she was a teenager, it had taken him a while to figure out.

Once he'd worked out the strange controls and started the wash, he returned to the med bay. The Doctor hadn't moved; Wilf checked on his vitals, temperature and hydration as per Pennine's instructions, before settling down with a book.

**TBC …**


	5. Types of Pain

**Chapter Five: Types of Pain**

As the Doctor slowly regained consciousness, his head was still swimming with vertigo. There was a lingering nausea threatening and he kept his eyes firmly shut, his face pressed sideways into the pillows, for a long while before the room felt like it wasn't moving.

As his senses righted, he became aware that someone was gently holding his hand. He decided to try opening his eyes. The light was dim, but seemed bright to him, clearing away the remaining grogginess.

"Doctor?"

"Wilf? That you?" The Doctor struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Yeah, it's me. How you feelin'?"

He considered. The last vestiges of the drugs felt like nothing compared to the pain now returning to his back. "I've been better. Have you … have you been there all the time?"

"Yeah."

Brilliant, loyal Wilf. The Doctor couldn't help a small smile. "You've been looking after me?"

"Of course; you didn't think I'd just leave you, did you?"

"Thank you," the Doctor said sincerely, "but you shouldn't have—your family must be going out their minds—"

Wilf shook his head. "Nah, I called Sylvia, and we cooked up a story to tell Donna. I can stay s'long as you need me for."

The Doctor shifted slightly, trying to ease his discomfort, but all he ended up doing was aggravating the remains of his injuries. Wilf's grip tightened on his hand as he let out an involuntary moan.

"Doctor? Does it still hurt?"

He wasn't going to get away with lying this time, so he gave a tiny nod. "Coma won't have healed everything," he said shortly.

"Let me see," Wilf said gently.

The Doctor didn't have much of a choice but to lie still while Wilf changed his bandages. It was a credit to the old human that he kept silent while he did it; the Doctor suspected that it took him an effort, he knew the gashes must still be bad. He was certain the healing coma wouldn't have affected them, only his internal injuries—the system had its limits, or at least, his did.

"How many?"

Wilf's hands paused. "What?"

"How many times did I get—I, I lost count, in there."

"Six," Wilf said.

That had been close then; one more, he'd certainly have been a goner. He didn't share these thoughts with Wilfred; the man must be traumatised enough. "Wilf?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not entirely certain I understand how I got out of there, but I know it was you. Thank you."

"Hey, don't thank me," Wilf said, now applying a soothing cloth to one of the gashes. "I only undid the chains, the rest was—" He broke off. "Er, Doctor … how much do you remember?"

It was a fair question. The Doctor had a clear memory of being forced onto the slab, and he knew he was in the TARDIS now; the bits in between were rather fuzzy. He strained his memory and nearly sat bolt upright as he remembered.

"Ouch!"

"Doctor! What'd you try 'n sit up for?"

"I remember—" The Doctor swallowed. "She … she was …" He took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself. "Wilf, the woman with you, she—"

"I know," Wilf said gently. "Who she was. Pennine." He took hold of the Doctor's hand again and squeezed it. "Your mother, right?"

"She said … she said she'd come back," the Doctor said shakily. "Did—"

"Not yet. My guess is she's waiting till you woke. Come on, try and rest, I can't do this when you're all tense."

The Doctor tried to obey, but it was difficult; the prospect of seeing his mother, while he was lucid, was making his head spin again. He wanted to see her so badly, but at the same time he was dreading it.

He loved his mother. He'd lost her twice, both times to his own hand. Now, he might be able to say a proper goodbye—but after all these years, he'd still have to watch her disappear into the Time Lock again, to die. If there was any chance of saving her, he knew, she would be here by his side now. There was only one option ahead, and he hated it.

He didn't even know what he would say. He knew she had supported him from the beginning, but that didn't make it any easier. They both knew her fate. How was he supposed to make up for that?

A couple of tears slipped from his eye, and the Doctor swallowed, a painful lump in his throat. If Wilf saw the tears, he chose to pretend he hadn't. Both men remained silent while Wilf finished tending to the Doctor's gashes.

"There. That should be okay," Wilf said, sounding slightly anxious. "I don' have medical training, so it's the best I can do."

The Doctor reached behind him and gingerly ran his fingers over the bandages. "That feels fine. Thanks, Wilf."

"You're welcome."

"You should go now."

"Don't be stupid, I'm not leaving you on your own like this. Who's gonna change your bandages for you, eh?"

The Doctor hesitated, unable to answer the question. Wilf had a point. The Doctor couldn't actually see the wounds on his back, or do anything to them. He needed another person until they'd fully healed.

"All right, you can stay a while. I've got clothes in the wardrobe—"

"I know; where's you think I got this clobber from?"

The Doctor gave a soft chuckle as he registered the loud Hawaiian shirt.

"I also found the kitchen," Wilf continued. "You must be hungry?"

He was, but the Doctor didn't think he could stomach anything yet. "Maybe in a while," he said. He was tired of lying on his front, and tried to turn over, letting out a gasp of pain. Wilfred was back at his side in an instant.

"Doctor? If there's something you want to get, I can fetch it—"

"No, just—trying—" The Doctor sighed; he hated feeling this helpless. "Could you help me, please—turn over—"

With help, the Doctor managed to lever himself onto his back instead, with minimal aggravation of his injuries. It wasn't the best position to be in, his back pressed against the mattress, but he no longer had to choose between a crick in his neck or suffocating in his pillow.

"Is that all right?" Wilf adjusted the pillows, allowing the Doctor to prop himself up a bit rather than being horizontal.

"Yeah—much better. Thanks."

"Can I get you anything? A cuppa maybe?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Tea sounds good. If you're offering."

Wilf got to his feet. "Milk and five sugars, isn't it?"

"Yeah—how do you know?"

A slightly pained look crossed Wilf's face as he said, "Donna."

"Oh."

"Which tea is it? She said you have a million different kinds."

"Fifty-seven different kinds actually; middle cupboard on the right-hand side as you walk in. And it's the big red tin with a Union Jack on the top." He paused. "No, sorry; Union Flag. I think. Well, it is in a ship …"

"Eh?"

"Never mind."

* * *

Wilf found his way to the kitchen again, and located the right tin of teabags. While the kettle boiled, he had a closer look around. For the most part it seemed to be a normal, if pretty big, kitchen—but there was a banana tree growing in one corner, a shelf filled entirely with jars of marmalade, and the freezer was as big as Wilf's own bedroom. The kitchen also had every modern appliance Wilf thought a kitchen could have, and quite a few gadgets that defied identification.

Although the Doctor hadn't wanted any food, Wilf found where he kept the biscuits and arranged some on a plate in the hope he could get him to eat _something_. He'd been unconscious for hours, if not days—Wilf had completely lost track of time, but knew that it had been a long while.

He returned to the Doctor, who was staring at his hands.

"Tea up. Something wrong, Doctor?"

"Nothing." The Doctor clenched his hands, before gratefully taking his mug. "Thanks, Wilf."

"You're welcome." Wilf kept an eye on his friend as he drank. The Doctor's hands were trembling slightly. The trauma, maybe? Or nerves, at the thought of his mother returning. Probably both.

Wilf wished there was something he could say, to make it all better. But if there was a right thing to say, he didn't know what it was. So he settled for the only thing he could think of.

"Biscuit?" He offered the plate to the Doctor, who gave a weak smile and took one with chocolate chips in. He opened his mouth to thank him, but the words never came out.

"Sweetheart?"

**TBC …**


End file.
